


Memento Mori

by HunterusHeroicus93



Category: Lords of Chaos (2018), Mayhem (Band)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Death Threats, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:27:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23435422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HunterusHeroicus93/pseuds/HunterusHeroicus93
Summary: Pelle is finally freed from his past.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	Memento Mori

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to 'Broken Pieces'. Originally supposed to be for Whumptober 2019, but life got in the way. Hope you enjoy, please leave Kudos or a comment! :3

Pelle wandered down the quiet street, deep in thought. It was early, too early for anyone else to be awake, which was just how he liked it. No one around to interrupt him when he wanted to be alone. He barely registered what day it was - time passed so quickly now that he hardly paid attention - but he knew that it was around midweek. He looked up at the sky. Cloudy, but beginning to get light. The neighbourhood would be waking up soon, going to work, or whatever else people did during the day. Pelle shook his head and quickened his pace. He made it back to Øystein’s building just as the streetlamps went out around him. He climbed the six flights of stairs quietly and let himself into the apartment. Light snoring told him the guitarist was still asleep.  
  
 _Probably didn’t even notice I was gone,_ Pelle thought. He kicked off his shoes and curled up on the sofa, pulling the covers around him. He was sleeping peacefully within minutes, and wouldn’t be disturbed until Øystein came clattering out of his room that afternoon.   
  
***   
  
“Wake up, fucker!” Øystein yelled, jabbing his foot into Pelle’s stomach.   
  
Pelle stirred, grumbling. “Why d’you have to be such a dick?” He tried to pull the covers over his eyes, but they were ripped from his hands.   
  
“Because this is my place, and I’m letting you stay here for free,” Øystein retorted. “You can always go back to your parents’.”   
  
Pelle shuddered at the thought. “Alright, I’m up.” He pulled himself into a sitting position, and Øystein sat down next to him. He spotted Pelle’s shoes, and sighed.   
  
“You okay?”   
  
“I’m fine. Why d’you ask?”   
  
“You went out again.”   
  
“I needed some air.”   
  
“So, open a fucking window.”   
  
Pelle grabbed a cushion and thrust it at Øystein. “Fuck off.”   
  
Øystein smirked, then looked at him seriously. “Are you sure you’re alright?”   
  
“I’m fine.”   
  
Øystein rolled his eyes, but let the matter drop. “What’s for breakfast? It’s your turn.”   
  
Pelle groaned and went to look through the cupboards.   
  
“How about mouldy bread, half a jar of pickles, and some sour milk?” He sniffed the jar of pickles, grimaced, and set them aside. “Scratch the pickles.”   
  
Øystein picked up the phone. “Pizza?”   
  
“Pizza,” Pelle agreed.   
  
***   
  
The rest of the day was spent sprawled out on the sofa, softly strumming Øystein’s acoustic, while the guitarist wrote letters to various other musicians. Despite the disbanding of _Mayhem_ , he still kept in touch - helping bands find new members, swapping demo tapes, and generally keeping up with news.   
  
“I had a nightmare.”   
  
Øystein stopped writing, surprised at Pelle’s sudden confession. He turned to look at him. Pelle avoided his eyes, fiddling with a loose thread in the sofa.   
  
“That’s why you left.”   
  
Pelle nodded. “I thought I was getting better. The therapy was helping.”   
  
“It’s only been a few months, Pelle. You haven’t even finished the course yet.” Øystein stood and joined Pelle on the sofa. “It’s okay to have a relapse. You’ll get better eventually, but it’ll take time.”   
  
Pelle swallowed and looked up. “I don’t know if I can wait that long.”   
  
“Don’t say that. You’re not going down that road again. I won’t let you.”   
  
“Thanks, man.” He looked at the time. “Shit, I’ve got to go. I’m going to be late.”   
  
Øystein walked him to the door. “Want me to come with you?”   
  
Pelle shook his head. “No. I’ll be okay.” He left, and Øystein shut the door behind him, sighing heavily.

***  
  
Pelle returned late that evening. A detour through the park had helped clear his mind as he thought over what had been said during his session. The usual crap about having an emotional outlet: writing, drawing, music. He liked drawing, and it helped occasionally, but he couldn’t face singing again for a while. It brought back too many memories. He’d tried it once, not long after he’d moved in with Øystein. He’d had a panic attack halfway through a song, and locked himself in the bathroom for the rest of the day.   
  
He took out his key and lifted it to the lock. He was about to turn it, when footsteps behind him made him stop. He made to look round, but the owner of the voice spoke to him, and he froze.   
  
“Don’t move.”   
  
Something pressed against his back. A hand ran through his hair, making him shudder.   
  
“H-how -”   
  
“Shh. No questions yet. How about you invite me in first?”   
  
Pelle gulped, and nodded. He turned the key slowly and pushed the door open. His feet felt heavy as he climbed the stairs, wishing they would never make it to the apartment. Eventually, inevitably, the chipped, white door came into view, and his heart sank. He tried to think of some way to warn Øystein, but he came up with nothing. He took his time finding the second key, his hands shaking.   
  
“Hurry up.” The knife jabbed into his back. He let out a sob, and opened the door.   
  
“Pelle, what the fuck, why are you so late?” Øystein spun his chair around to look at him, and his mouth ran dry. “Fuck,” he whispered.   
  
“Sit.” Faust pushed Pelle into the room, and Pelle stumbled to the sofa, silent tears staining his cheeks.   
  
Øystein stood. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he yelled. “Get out!”   
  
Faust frowned. “That’s no way to speak to an old friend,” he tutted. He shut the door behind him and pulled a chair to the middle of the room. He sat and studied Pelle quietly.   
  
“ _Friend_ ?” Øystein spat. “You tried to kill us! You put him through hell!” He gestured towards Pelle. “You burned down our home and murdered our bandmate! And you call yourself ‘ _friend’?_ ”   
  
“An unfortunate accident,” Faust said. He leaned forward and put a hand on Pelle’s knee. Pelle stiffened. “Why are you crying? I thought you’d be happy to see me.”   
  
Pelle clenched his teeth, desperately fighting the urge to argue. He knew this wasn’t going to end well for either of them, but he didn’t want to accelerate the situation, especially as Faust seemed content just talking. For now, anyway.   
  
“Can’t you see you’re upsetting him?” Øystein snarled. “He doesn’t want you here, and neither do I!”   
  
He stepped towards Faust, and Faust glared at him, holding the knife up.   
  
“Don’t fucking move.” The change in his tone made Øystein stop in his tracks. Pelle sobbed harder, and Faust softened again. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He stroked Pelle’s leg softly.   
  
“P-please, just go,” Pelle whispered.   
  
“But I wanted to catch up. It’s been so long,” Faust whined.   
  
“How are you here?” Øystein asked.   
  
“I have some friends who helped me out. They paid off the judge to reduce my sentence.”   
  
“But it’s barely been six months. You should still be inside after what you did.”   
  
Faust shrugged. “It was _vastly_ reduced.”   
  
“How did you find us?”   
  
“Oh, I had some help with that, too. From one of your friends, this time. Jørn. He sang like a bird after a few hours. Some friend, huh? I didn’t think he’d give you up so easily.” He chuckled. “He won’t be singing anymore, though.”   
  
Øystein stumbled backwards into his chair and sat down. “He’s… dead?”   
  
Faust nodded. “As a doornail.”   
  
“Fuck,” Øystein said. “You sick motherfucker.”   
  
“He sold you out! It’s not like he cared about you. I thought you’d want to be rid of him.”   
  
“Faust, please…” Pelle said, looking up. “Look, I’ll go with you, I’ll do whatever you want, just please leave Øystein alone.”   
  
“Oh, Pelle. You’re coming with me anyway, but I have to do this first. He tried to keep us apart. He doesn’t deserve to live.” Faust stood, gripping the knife harder.   
  
“No!” Pelle shouted. “Please, Faust, don’t do this.” He grabbed Faust’s free hand and held tightly. Faust turned to look at him.   
  
“Just calm down. It’s going to be okay.”   
  
While Faust was distracted, Øystein slipped quietly off his chair and picked up a large skull ornament from his desk. He crept forwards and raised it, bringing it down as hard as he could onto Faust’s head.   
  
Fault yelled in pain and fury, spinning on his heels and thrusting the knife at Øystein. The blade caught Øystein’s cheek and he hissed, but stood firm. He threw a punch at Faust, narrowly missing breaking his nose. Pelle dragged himself further onto the sofa, not sure what to do. He had to help somehow. He spotted the dropped ornament. It had fractured, but was still whole. He snatched it up.   
  
Faust grabbed Øystein’s hair and pulled the guitarist towards him, growling.   
  
“Get the fuck off me!” Øystein swung a fist at Faust, but Faust twisted his hand further into his hair and forced him onto his knees. He raised the knife, grinning maliciously. Pelle seized his chance. He leapt at Faust, gripping the ornament tightly with both hands. He slammed it down, hard. Faust howled and released Øystein. He stumbled backwards, raising a hand to his head. It came away wet and sticky, and he rounded on Pelle, snarling.   
  
“You made me fucking bleed!”   
  
Pelle glared at him. “Good.”   
  
“I warned you, if you ever touched me again, I was going to kill you.”   
  
“As long as I take you with me, I don’t care,” Pelle hissed. He threw himself at Faust, wrapping an arm around his neck. He sank his teeth into Faust’s shoulder. Faust screamed and tried to shake him off, but Pelle held on. Faust remembered the knife, and slashed at Pelle. He caught his hand, and Pelle loosed his grip, yelling. Faust freed himself, turned, and took hold of Pelle’s throat. He held the knife to it, and Pelle fell still, waiting.   
  
“Do it, then.”   
  
Faust smiled. “Not yet.” He kicked Pelle hard in the stomach, then slammed his fist into his jaw. Pelle dropped to the floor, groaning. Øystein pulled himself to his feet and ran at Faust, tackling him to the ground.   
  
“Leave him the fuck alone!” He grasped Faust’s wrist and wrestled the knife out of his hand. Faust threw a punch, connecting with Øystein’s temple, and Øystein lost his grip on the knife. He ignored it, and headbutted Faust. Dazed, Faust swiped at Øystein, shoving him aside. Øystein landed heavily, the force knocking the wind out of him. The three of them lay still for a few minutes, recovering.   
  
“You… son of a bitch,” Øystein panted. He lifted his head to look at Pelle. “Pelle, you okay?”   
  
Pelle stirred. “Mhm,” he groaned. He pushed himself up, rubbing his jaw. He looked at Faust, who had passed out. “Is he dead?”   
  
Øystein shook his head. “Not yet.” He looked around for the knife. He spotted it lying under the table. He reached for it and handed it to Pelle. “You do it.”   
  
Pelle took the knife hesitantly. “I don’t know if I can.”   
  
“You can, Pelle. Think of what he put you through. He never deserved you. He should have rotted in prison. It’s time to get rid of him for good.”   
  
Pelle bit his lip. “I can’t. Fuck, Øystein, I can’t do it.” He dropped the knife and sank onto the sofa.   
  
“Then I will.” Øystein picked up the knife and knelt beside Faust. “You can look away, Pelle. It’ll be over soon.”   
  
“No, it’s okay. Just do it.”   
  
Øystein raised the knife, took a deep breath, and plunged it towards Faust’s chest.   
  
Faust opened his eyes, and caught Øystein’s wrist just before the knife made contact. He pushed himself upright, twisting the knife around as he did so, and drove it into Øystein’s shoulder. Øystein screamed at the same time Pelle shouted “No!”. He fell backwards, and Faust climbed on top of him, pinning him down. He dug the knife in further, baring his teeth. Pelle dived off the sofa and pulled Faust away.   
  
“Stop it!”   
  
Faust pushed him aside. “You’re fucking next!” he snarled. He turned back to Øystein, but Pelle grabbed hold of him again and pulled him to the floor.   
  
“Leave him alone! You came here for me, didn’t you? Well, you can have me. Just leave him. Please.” He stared into Faust’s eyes, trying to figure out what the other man was thinking. Faust seemed to be deliberating. He made a decision.   
  
“I told you I was going to kill you. I wanted you to watch while I killed him first, but I guess you want to do this the other way around.”   
  
“Fine. Kill me. I don’t care. I wanted to die the moment you came back into my life. Hell, I fucking _tried_ . They put me in hospital.” He rolled up a sleeve and showed Faust the long, deep scars on his wrist.   
  
Faust’s eyes widened, and for a minute, he seemed more human, almost like the man he’d been when Pelle had first met him.   
  
Then, he steeled himself. He eyes darkened, and he looked at Pelle.   
  
“That doesn’t matter. You’re going to get your wish now.”   
  
He straddled Pelle and began laying into him, one punch after another. Pelle took each hit, hoping Faust would be too tired by the time he was done to finish off Øystein.   
  
The blows stopped. He tried to open his eyes to see what was happening, but he couldn’t. He felt fingers snake around his throat, slick with blood. They tightened, then dug in. A nail broke through his skin, but he no longer cared.   
  
The grip suddenly slackened. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t have the energy to wonder. He simply lay there, patiently waiting for darkness. After a few minutes, he became aware of a faint voice calling his name.   
  
“Pelle! Wake up! Fuck. Please, wake up!”   
  
The voice became clearer, and he frowned. He didn’t want to wake up. He was comfortable.   
  
“Pelle!” Someone was shaking him now. A trembling hand pressed against his throat, and he felt a weight on his chest.   
  
What on Earth were they doing? He decided he’d better get up, just to rid himself of this nuisance.   
  
As he grew more lucid, he realised he was covered in something. He tried to raise his hand to his face, but it felt heavy. His eyelids fluttered, and the voice became more urgent.   
  
“Pelle? Shit, you’re alive!”   
  
This confused him even more. Why wouldn’t he be - ?   
  
_Oh._   
  
As his memories flooded back, he shot up, gasping. Faust was staring at him. He scrambled backwards, but someone caught him.   
  
“It’s okay, Pelle. He’s dead. He can’t hurt you.”   
  
He looked around. Øystein sat next to him, looking pale. He spotted the blood pouring from his shoulder, and grasped Øystein’s arm.   
  
“You’re hurt,” he croaked.   
  
Øystein smiled faintly. “I’m okay. I thought you were dead. He nearly killed you.”   
  
“What happened?”   
  
“I pulled the knife out of my arm and slit his throat.”   
  
Pelle looked back at Faust. He could see properly now - Faust’s eyes were half-closed, his throat in ribbons, and blood pooled around him.   
  
“Sorry you got caught in it.” Øystein gestured to the blood soaking Pelle’s face and clothes. “He wouldn’t go down any other way.”   
  
Øystein wrapped an arm around Pelle’s shoulder, grimacing as he moved.   
  
“I think someone called the cops. I heard sirens a minute ago.”   
  
Sure enough, a few seconds later, the door was forced open, and officers and paramedics poured into the room. A light shone into Pelle’s eyes and he recoiled, but Øystein held him tightly, reassuring him that he was going to be okay.   
  
He watched two men take Faust’s limp form away, and allowed himself to be bundled down the stairs and into an ambulance. Øystein stayed close to him the entire time, and he had never felt safer.


End file.
